Chapter 11 : THE RENFIELD PROBLEM
Two weeks later, the System found our next opportunity.
[ALERT: HIGH-VALUE RECRUITMENT TARGET DETECTED] [SPECIES: GHOUL — FAMILY UNIT] [LOCATION: HELENA, MONTANA — 142 MILES SOUTHEAST] [SITUATION: HUNTER PURSUIT — IMMINENT THREAT] [RECOMMENDATION: INVESTIGATE AND RECRUIT]
I read the briefing while Jenny organized patrol rotations. The coalition had stabilized faster than I'd expected—werewolves and Skinwalkers avoiding each other during hunts, sharing the communal spaces without open conflict, slowly learning to coexist.
But stability wasn't growth. Growth required risk.
"Ghouls?" Ruth's nose wrinkled when I explained the mission. "They eat the dead."
"They survive," I corrected. "They've survived for longer than most monster species because they found a niche no one else wanted. Low profile. High efficiency. Exactly what we need."
Jenny's presence pulsed with curiosity across the bond. She'd learned to modulate it over the past weeks—we both had—but strong emotions still bled through.
"I'm coming with you," she said.
"No. This is reconnaissance. I go alone, assess the situation, make contact." I pulled on my jacket. "If they're hostile or the hunter situation is worse than reported, I need to be able to move fast."
"And if you get killed?"
"Then you become the coalition leader." I offered a thin smile. "Congratulations in advance."
The drive to Helena took three hours. I parked a mile from the target location and approached on foot, using the shadows and my hawk form for reconnaissance.
The Renfield family had claimed Evergreen Cemetery as their territory—a sprawling Victorian graveyard on the outskirts of the city. Mausoleums converted into living quarters. Fresh graves providing sustenance. The smell of old death hung over everything, thick enough that even human noses would notice something wrong.
I shifted back to human form at the main gate. Made no effort to hide my approach.
A figure separated from the shadows of a crumbling monument. Male, middle-aged in appearance, skin the color of old paper. His eyes caught the moonlight and reflected it wrong—too bright, too steady.
"Skinwalker." His voice carried the flat affect of something that had stopped pretending to be alive decades ago. "Bold of you to walk into our home."
"Edgar Renfield." I kept my hands visible. "I'm not here to hunt. I'm here to help."
He didn't respond. Simply waited.
"You have a hunter problem," I continued. "Two of them, been tracking your family for weeks. You've lost members already. If things continue as they are, you'll lose more."
"And how would you know this?"
"Because I pay attention." I stepped closer. Not aggressive—calculated. Showing confidence without threat. "I know that ghouls who hold territory this long don't survive by being careless. Something changed. Someone got sloppy, or the hunters got lucky, and now you're being squeezed."
A second figure emerged behind Edgar. Female, older, her grey hair pulled back in a severe bun. Margaret Renfield, the matriarch. Her expression held the same cold assessment as her partner's.
"You have a proposal," Margaret said. Not a question.
"I have an offer. Join my coalition. I'm building something in the mountains—a territory that can hold multiple species. You'd have protection. Space. Access to feeding grounds that don't draw hunter attention."
"And in exchange?"
"Your skills. Tunnel construction. Corpse disposal. The ability to move through human society without raising suspicion." I let them process that. "Ghouls have survived this long because you're adaptable. I need adaptable."
Edgar and Margaret exchanged a look. Something passed between them—communication that came from decades of partnership.
"We've heard rumors," Edgar said carefully. "A Skinwalker who killed an Alpha. Who bonded with werewolves. Strange stories."
"Probably all true."
"Then you're either very powerful or very crazy."
"Can't it be both?"
Margaret's lips twitched. Not quite a smile—ghouls didn't smile the way humans did—but something adjacent.
"We'll discuss it," Edgar said. "Come back in three days."
"You may not have three days." I pointed toward the distant road. "Those hunters are getting closer. They're not local—they came specifically for you. That means someone told them where to look."
The temperature in the graveyard dropped several degrees. Margaret's hand found Edgar's arm.
"You're certain?" she asked.
"I tracked their surveillance this morning. Blue pickup, Montana plates. Two operatives, well-equipped. They're watching your main entrance during the day."
Edgar's jaw tightened. The flat affect cracked slightly, revealing something ancient and dangerous underneath.
"Three days," he repeated. "If we decide yes, we'll find you. If not—"
"Then I never came here, and you never saw me."
I turned to leave. Made it three steps before Margaret's voice stopped me.
"The cemetery in Missoula. 1847. Do you know it?"
I glanced back. "Should I?"
"My grandmother is buried there. We visit every decade." Her dead eyes held mine. "If this is a trap, Skinwalker, I'll find you. Whatever hole you crawl into, I'll find you. And I'll take years making you regret it."
"Fair enough."
I walked out through the main gate, feeling their eyes on my back until the shadows swallowed me.
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